


looking for trouble

by astronomicallie, peachmilks



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (detailed in notes), Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pre-Relationship, Sylvix Big Bang (Fire Emblem), enemies to begrudging acquaintances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:54:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26220715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astronomicallie/pseuds/astronomicallie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachmilks/pseuds/peachmilks
Summary: “Fuck you,” he growls, bucking. For his trouble, he gets even more weight bearing down on him, keeping him thoroughly trapped. The man has a height and weight advantage— both of which set Felix’s blood boiling just beneath the skin. “I’m not your sweetheart.” The words slur out through the sudden rush of blood and saliva filling his mouth.“What else should I call you, then?” And oh, Felix canhearthe grin in that bastard’s voice as he leans down, voice closer to Felix’s ear. “I’d suggest we trade names, but we both know that’s not allowed in our line of work.”Felix and Sylvain are members of rival agencies. An Eagle and Lion respectively, they meet while on similar missions relating to a man named Acheron, who is a client of both organizations despite their animosity towards each other. That's just the beginning of their problems.A 'spy' fic written by someone who hasn't actually seen many spy films. Illustrated by@277yen!
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 12
Kudos: 133
Collections: Sylvix Big Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this has taken forever to get out of my brain. it's nothing particularly soul-bearing or Masterful, but it sure is fun! featuring dumb codenames, a dress, and frustration of all different kinds. hope you enjoy. c:
> 
> a note on the non-consensual drug use: there are two points in this fic where someone or multiple someones ingest(s) something that knocks them out, or causes them to grow extremely sluggish. nothing happens aside from that. they're both pretty plot-relevant, though, so if that's not your thing please enjoy your day elsewhere!

The mission starts well. That’s the only positive thing Felix can say on the matter.

“How long is this going to take?”

“However long it takes me to find our lead in this mess of a file system.”

Felix rests against the desk Linhardt’s sitting at, his fingers curling over the edge of the wood as he forces his patience into place. “You do realize we’re on a mission.”

“A mission on which I am to gather intelligence above all else.” Linhardt eyes him coolly over the monitor. The blue light makes his already pale, fine features look ethereal compared to the low light in the rest of the solitary office. “And you are to guard me while doing so. I see no rush here.”

Felix feels a twitch start to develop in his eye. “Anyone could walk in—”

“After working hours in a private corporation’s business? The only people that would walk in on us are maintenance or custodians. Which…” He reaches up, yawning into the back of his hand. “Goshawk took care of, correct?”

“I suppose.”

“Then let me do my work in peace, please.” Linhardt shows no true irritation on his face, just a serene patience that Felix is sure he has perfected after dealing with some of their other teammates. He continues, murmuring to himself as he turns his attention back to the screen, “You would think Acheron would at least be somewhat organized… Then again, irritating potential snoops with a hellish mess of files over your desktop is probably the best way to deter people in a hurry.”

Felix has not perfected patience yet. He’s already feeling pent-up energy settle at the base of his spine, ready to spring to attention over any little thing. He drums his fingers on the edge of the desk as some sort of outlet, but it isn’t long before he pushes off from the desk and starts pacing the room, his boots setting a solid rhythm over the dense carpet.

Linhardt clears his throat.

Felix keeps pacing.

“If you’re so restless,” Linhardt offers, and when Felix looks to him he has not stopped studying the computer, “you could patrol outside and make sure no one comes in.”

This wasn’t what their superiors meant by sending Felix along to ensure Linhardt’s safety, but it’s an out and Felix is glad to take it as such. “Alright,” he says, clipped and unwilling to mention just how correct Linhardt was in his diagnosis of the situation. “You know how to get me if something happens.”

Linhardt raises his wrist, brandishing the band around it. “Hit the button, it sends you my location, blah blah…” He rolls his cloudy indigo eyes. “I made them. Of course I know how to use them. Remember what Hubert said— if I set off these alarms, they may very well lock down the whole site. Don’t wander too far.”

Felix rolls his eyes as he leaves. Of course he knows; he never leaves without going over every bit of his mission’s plans— he went over them with Linhardt before they even entered. Instead of turning around to argue as much, his boots meet the tile outside, already much louder than his steps were in the office. It’s not like he has to keep them light; he’s not quietly infiltrating anymore, he’s guarding his infiltration partner. He casts one more look behind him at the blue light framing Linhardt and getting caught in his tied-back hair, and shakes his head, shutting the door behind him.

As Linhardt assumed, the entire building is dark and empty, with only the residual lights on low for what should be custodians wandering the halls and rooms. Felix supposes his job could be classified as custodial— he’s keeping any trash out of Linhardt’s way. Even if, right now, he supposes he’s _looking_ for trash. Or trouble. Something to get the buzz out of his limbs. It’s been simmering since he entered this place with Linhardt, who shares Felix’s dislike for pointless conversation but directly opposes his need for some sort of movement.

If everything has gone as planned, if Hubert’s expert redirection of the staff has worked in their favor, then there will be nothing to do for the entirety of the time Linhardt’s supposed to be working at the computer. Felix makes a note to come back periodically just to make sure he’s not sleeping on the job; though the rest of the team trusts Hevring’s devotion to the cause (or, his own personal interests in it), he has seen the man slumped over in their headquarters or during meetings enough times to feel the need to exercise a healthy amount of caution. The sooner they’re out of here, the better. And when they’re out, he’ll be even closer to figuring out just what his boss’s intentions are towards Acheron, and why they’re looking into a man who’s been a client of the Eagles’ specialties for, as Felix understands it, a good while.

Felix agrees with the need to look into Acheron, of course. The man reeks of elitism and slime, everything Edelgard had assured Felix that she and her organization were trying to fight with their private services. It’s not hard to understand why Acheron would put skin in their game— he’s in politics. He needs information _and_ protection, both delivered discreetly. But Felix draws a blank as to why the Eagles have entertained him for so long. Nevertheless, _something_ has directed the Eagles’ suspicions towards Acheron, and Felix wishes Hubert had given him more information in his briefing other than _We are currently investigating our own suspicions towards Acheron and his intentions with our services._

He shouldn’t have expected they would be given much more than the bare necessities. _Trust is essential in this organization,_ Edelgard told him when he first joined, _but so is skepticism._ Only Hubert and perhaps Ferdinand would know _all_ the details at any point in time, but Felix is definitely lower on the ladder.

He hasn’t climbed higher on that ladder yet, after _years_ of loyal affiliation, so he doubts he ever will.

Tonight, he’s here because Linhardt needed a partner experienced in close-combat, and Caspar was too rowdy for the part of a quiet infiltration. Knowing him, he would be even more insufferable than Felix right now with his restless energy. But he also has a camaraderie with Linhardt that goes back further than even the Eagles’ formation, so it isn’t hard to imagine that the two would find _something_ to talk about while Linhardt’s hands flew over the keyboard. Felix is the outsider here, but he’s gotten used to that fact. It’s only natural, considering where he came from and whom he left behind.

Felix’s next step falls harder, the harsh sound working to dislodge him from that train of thought. He scoffs, then sighs, turning a corner under a flickering light.

Someone’s there, leaning against the wall like they’ve been— like they’ve been _waiting_ for Felix to stomp around the corner, and Felix draws his gun—

“Oh, holy shit— _watch it!”_

There are many ways a civilian would react to a gun being pulled on them: fear, apprehension, hands flying to the sky, making a run for it. But despite the panic in this one’s voice, he doesn’t run or cower. He merely straightens, hands held aloft on either side of his head as he studies the gun and then Felix himself. He’s no custodian. Custodians don’t dress in all-black ensembles with a bulk to their chests that can only be explained by a thick vest. They don’t eye a gun like it’s an obstruction rather than a threat.

Felix narrows his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

The stranger has a shock of red hair, brown eyes, and a slope to his mouth that’s visible even as his handsome features pull down in a faux confusion so effective that Felix almost puts his gun down. Almost. “What are _you_ doing here?” the stranger asks, “I thought I was the only one on shift tonight, and here’s some guy with a fucking _gun—”_

Felix releases the safety with a _click._ “Loaded, at that. Now stop feeding me shit or you’ll have more to worry about than a brandished gun.”

“Woah, woah, _hold on!_ Is there some sort of event going on? No one told me I had the night off, I—”

“Why are you standing around then, huh? Instead of doing your job?”

The man sighs and rolls his eyes. “If I just _worked,_ I’d have everything done in two hours. Can you blame a guy for killing time?”

“I don’t see your mop.” In fact, Felix sees anything _but—_ the telltale shape of a knife strapped to his bicep, the earpiece that isn’t even _half_ hidden. He narrows his eyes.

“There’s more to custodial work than _mopping.”_

“Sure.” Felix gestures at their surroundings with the gun— a quick left-right twitch. “But you’ve got nothing else, either. Hands behind your head, before I blow one of them off.”

The redhead’s eyes lock on something over Felix’s shoulder, and he returns his attention with a grin that fits his face much better— knife-sharp with an edge that crawls up his face. “Promise?”

Felix recognizes a tell when he sees one, and he swings around to see whoever’s about to catch him in the back with his finger held steady over the trigger. There’s no one there. He has a split second to go through phases of realization, humiliation, and infuriation before there’s a solid weight crashing into his back and sending him to the ground.

The shock makes him stiffen. He abandons the gun in a split-second decision, sending it skittering across the tile so he can throw his hands out to catch himself. He tries to brace for impact in the scramble, but the heft of the other man follows him down and makes him buckle. His teeth snap together as his chin collides with the tile. With the jarring sensation comes a sharp sting and the taste of iron.

He gets one glance at the gun before he has other problems in the form of hands wrapping around his wrists and wrenching them behind his back. He managed to get it far enough away that either man won’t be able to get it easily, so… well, he accomplished _one_ thing.

“Come on,” his assailant says, flippantly antagonizing. “That’s one of the oldest tricks in the book, sweetheart.”

The name stokes his irritation once more, and he struggles to break his arms out of the other man’s grasp. “Fuck you,” he growls, bucking. For his trouble, he gets even more weight bearing down on him, keeping him thoroughly trapped. The man has a height and weight advantage— both of which set Felix’s blood boiling just beneath the skin. “I’m not your _sweetheart.”_ The words slur out through the sudden rush of blood and saliva filling his mouth.

“What else should I call you, then?” And oh, Felix can _hear_ the grin in that bastard’s voice as he leans down, voice closer to Felix’s ear. “I’d suggest we trade names, but we both know that’s not allowed in our line of work.”

So he _is_ an enemy agent. There’s only one organization he knows of who could possibly be keeping an eye on them and want to meddle. He ignores the sensation of ice crawling down his spine as he realizes just who’s here. Who _could_ be here.

Well. It’s amazing he _hasn’t_ personally quarreled with the Lions yet.

Felix doesn’t grace him with a response, instead taking advantage of the taunt that has brought him within range. He rears his head back in one more buck, vaguely registering the impact to the Lion’s nose. Said Lion cries out, falling back, and his grip loosens on Felix’s wrists enough for him to wrench them away and scramble out from under him.

He flips onto his back as soon as he’s able, getting another look at the Lion to reassess. There’s blood running from his nose, just a shade shy from the tint of his hair, and those hazel eyes sharpen, assessing him in tandem.

The Lion springs forward to pin him, but Felix rolls out of the way. His gaze darts around the floor, looking for the gun.

“You fucker. That _hurt.”_

A wicked voice in Felix’s head cheers, _Good._ The gun’s too far away to grab— he can’t leave himself vulnerable for this guy to get him trapped again, or worse. Besides, one of the half-dozen knives on his person could easily replace a _gun._ His third split-second decision of the minute is to charge, bodily colliding with his assailant. The weight difference is too much to hope to solidly pin him, but Felix isn’t _weak._ He adapts to the situation.

Adapting in this case means sending the man to the floor before he can catch his breath. Too slow, because his attack is caught, and it’s a brief struggle before his assailant grunts and shoves Felix to the floor. The back of his head cracks against the tile, stars dancing in his eyes as he gasps through the pain, trying to refocus on the man’s face.

It’s got a wide, gleaming smile as he looms over him. How he can stand to grin through the blood on his face, like he’s _amused_ at all of this, is beyond Felix. His hands press Felix’s wrists to the tile with bruising force.

“Not a talker, huh?”

Felix spits in his face. It sends angry, wet specks across his face, mingling with what’s already flowing from his stupidly perfect nose. Felix hopes he broke the thing just for that damn _sweetheart_ comment.

The Lion makes a noise of disgust, but doesn’t wipe his face. “One more chance to give me your name,” he says. “Or, better, tell me what you’re doing snooping around in Acheron’s offices.”

“Fuck you,” Felix says again. “I have every right to be here. Acheron’s our client.”

Confusion flickers across the Lion’s face, then. It rests in the stitch between his brows. “He’s _ours._ Acheron’s had the Lions hired for ages, now.”

“Don’t lie to me. How else would we have managed to clear this place out so cleanly?”

“Clearly you didn’t tie up every loose end,” his assailant says, a smile quirking his lips.

Felix growls. The man won’t get closer, anymore— probably already learned from the headbutting lesson. It gives Felix very little to work with, considering he’s straddled and pinned to the ground so easily. “Asshole,” he says, because that’s the one option left to him.

“I didn’t know the Eagles let such reckless spitfires in their leagues.”

Felix didn’t either. Not until he approached them himself. “I didn’t know the Lions had such chatty bastards. Are they that desperate, now?”

If the Lion has any reaction to being identified, he doesn’t show it. “It adds to the charm,” he says, then his gaze spaces out as he listens to something. “Yeah, I’ve got the second neutralized— wait, what do you mean—”

A shot rings out down the hall, and the Lion goes pale.

It’s then that Felix registers the vibration on his wrist, where his bracelet has activated. He knows two things, now: there’s a second Lion, and Linhardt is compromised.

“Lost your friend?” he asks, saccharine and sneering, not bothering to think about who that friend could be. There’s no way that they’d send— well. He clenches his jaw at the thought.

The Lion’s gaze turns ruinous, glaring down at him, and Felix thinks this is where he gets choked out, shot, stabbed— whichever comes first. Before his assailant can decide, however, the alarm sounds.

His third revelation: they’re _all_ compromised.

Instead of incapacitating Felix, the Lion shoves himself up and scrambles for his feet. He barely gives Felix a second glance before he’s sprinting back the way Felix came, down the hall to where Linhardt’s based. It takes a moment for Felix to realize the sudden change in demeanor and goal, and even then, he finds it hard to bring himself back to his feet. The world spins; he’ll have to get checked out if he gets out of this alive. Linhardt should be able to screen him, if he’s unscathed.

Were this any other situation, he’d challenge the Lion to come back and finish what he started. _Coward._ But now, they’re all in trouble, with a loud siren filling the air, and Felix can’t think of much else besides the fact that he needs to find his partner. Hubert warned them of this little contingency, after all.

So, instead of taunting, he takes off after the Lion, back to Linhardt’s location. He sees the Lion wrench the door open, mouth moving in a word Felix can’t catch over the sirens as he darts in.

“Shit, _shit—”_ He pushes himself faster, the walls passing by too quickly for his spinning head. By the time he gets there, the Lion is already barreling out with someone else in tow. They collide, and Felix stumbles back against the opposite wall as something clatters to the floor.

“Out of my way,” the Lion manages, and Felix barely gets a glance at the other person under his arm— grey hair, head hung forward, shorter body nearly limp.

It’s not worth it. Felix launches himself off the wall and shoves past him and his partner, stumbling into the room to see Linhardt with a mask over his face. Felix belatedly throws a hand over his own nose and makes an exaggerated gesture to the door.

Linhardt shrugs. “I’d rather wait for you,” he says, voice tinny behind the filter. He stands, retrieving a drive from the computer’s tower and striding to the door as if he’s totally unbothered. Leave it to him to have a gas mask on hand— fucking academics, prepared for anything.

“I alerted Goshawk,” he says, raising his wrist and the band around it. “Extraction’s coming. Preferably _before_ the building locks down entirely.”

Felix follows him out the door. “You set off the failsafe?”

“Not on purpose. I had company, you’ll understand when I say I was preoccupied.” Linhardt gives him a once-over. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks.”

“Where’s your wristband?”

“Right—” Sure enough, Felix can’t find the band on his wrist anymore, his hand circling a bare wrist instead of what’s probably a _very_ expensive piece of technology. Oh well, it probably fell off in the struggle. “Not important. We have to get out of here.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

“Not quickly enough.”

“You’re the one who’s stumbling.”

Felix tries to glare, but his head hurts too much. “Shut up,” he says.

“Any idea where your friend went? He yanked _my_ friend away as if he was a ragdoll. I would think they know a way out.”

“We’re going out the way we came in. There’s no reason to complicate things further.”

Linhardt murmurs his assent, and after one more step that almost sends Felix careening into a wall, he feels an arm wrap around his side and Linhardt’s bony shoulders turn under his own arm. “Come on, then,” Linhardt sighs, and he’s sounds fucking _bored_ of all of this, doesn’t he? “Losing a teammate is bad for morale, let’s go.”

As if Felix would allow himself to be _lost_ due to his _partner’s_ fuck-up. (He ignores how he fucked up in his own way, letting someone get the drop on him that easily.)

No matter what, he… appreciates the help. Especially when they’re damn near tumbling down the stairs after realizing that, with all the alarms in place for intruders, it wouldn’t be far-fetched for the elevators to be locked down. Their steps are heavy and hurried, pounding down each consecutive floor, and though Felix still can’t help the pounding in his head (which rivals the shrill screech of the alarm), he likes to think he isn’t as big of a burden as he could be. Linhardt doesn’t complain much, at least— but he also has a strain to his brow, unable to really speak past his panting.

They hear voices above, rising above the stairs. The cadence is that of Felix’s ‘friend’, who says something about ash and the roof.

“Idiots,” Felix breathes. “Who comes in from the roof?”

“Those who worry more about security measures than we do,” Linhardt replies matter-of-factly, despite the breathlessness in his tone. “If Goshawk’s information on their security lockdowns is correct, we don’t have much time to get out of here ourselves.” He grunts, shoulders open a door and releases Felix long enough for the latter to stand and gather his bearings. “So I’d suggest you stop worrying about them.”

“I’m not worrying.” He _isn’t._ But if he can put the bastard on blast for sneaking in via fucking _helicopter,_ well… Felix will take it.

“You aren’t,” Linhardt agrees. “Otherwise, I’d have to report you to Goshawk.”

Felix clenches his jaw and says nothing else. All he needs to think about right now is running for his life, following Linhardt’s directions towards a side entrance where, if anything has gone right this night at all, there will be a dark vehicle waiting for them.

And there is. It’s a van with the side doors open so Felix and Linhardt need only to scramble in and slide them shut, left trying to catch their breath against the less-than-comfortable floor of the back of the vehicle. They end up on opposite sides, backs propped against the walls as their one form of support.

“Lin! You okay?”

Linhardt manages a sigh even through his shortened breaths, waving a hand up towards their driver. “Code names, Kestrel.”

“To hell with code names, this is our vehicle! Why should I worry about _that?”_

“This _is_ our vehicle, isn’t it?” Felix asks, faux-curious. He snarls moments after, “So _get driving.”_

“I’m fine,” Linhardt adds. “So yes, _please_ get us out of here.”

Caspar turns back around in his seat to actually face the wheel. Felix rolls his head to see his cropped blue hair over the headrest and hears, “Fine, fine, hold on!”

“They couldn’t even send something _comfortable,”_ Linhardt says, voice far too low to be called a whine.

“We’re agents,” Felix says, “not celebrities.”

“Whatever. Now.” Linhardt shifts closer, scooting along the floor of the van as Caspar takes off at a definitely conspicuous speed. When Felix flinches at his outstretched hand, Linhardt narrows his eyes. “You’re dizzy, disoriented, and bleeding from your mouth. Can you tell me what happened?”

It’s not concern painting his words. Linhardt treats these sorts of things with a special detachment, a purely medically-trained eye as he pointedly avoids looking at the lower half of Felix’s face, which he can imagine looks horrific right now.

For a man disgusted by blood, Linhardt von Hevring is _definitely_ in the wrong job. But Felix catches his breath and harnesses his residual fury to give himself the energy to recount the skirmish.

Now that he has time to breathe and process what happened, he pauses and frowns. “He said Acheron was a _Lions_ client.”

“We’re _spies,”_ Caspar says from the front. “People lie all the time!”

“No, he’s got a point,” Linhardt says. “My company said the same thing, even spouted information only _we’re_ supposed to know.”

Felix raises an eyebrow. “How unprofessional.”

Linhardt waves a hand. “I don’t think anyone in that building could be called ‘professional’ tonight. Now, keep your head still and follow my finger, alright?”

Felix rolls his eyes, but when Linhardt clicks his tongue sternly, he complies.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, Trouble had more to him than I thought. Fought like a wild animal once I got him down. Spat in my face.”

Sylvain’s first order of business returning from the botched retaliation mission is to make sure Ashe is okay. He keeps his arm wrapped around his waist as they stumble into their headquarters, going through the metric shit-ton of security measures Dimitri has had installed over the years. He hand-delivers him to Mercedes. “There was some kind of knockout gas,” he explains, shoving the weariness out of his voice. “They must have triggered it while I was busy.”

Mercedes merely nods and directs him to lay Ashe down on their one sick bed. It isn’t until she’s hooking him up to check his vitals that she speaks, lavender eyes finding Sylvain’s across the bed. “Your nose,” she says. “Is it broken?”

Ah. Right. That’s why there’s a dull throbbing radiating from his face. Sylvain reaches up and prods at it gingerly, shaking his head. “No. Just tender. Good thing, right?” He offers her a charming smile, playing the cool and suave card. “Wouldn’t be much use here without my good looks.”

Mercedes sees right through his bluff. She often does. She looks back down at Ashe, combing back his bangs and feeling his forehead as she reaches for something to actually take his temperature with. “You brought him back to us. You didn’t need your looks for that, Sylvain.”

_ Sylvain. _ He likes Mercedes, has liked her ever since he walked into this haphazard team. She’s not often out in the field, so she has little use for codenames anyway, but hearing just those two syllables of his name in her soft, thoughtful tone always manages to calm him down. It reminds him that he’s a person under all their secrecy. A person named ‘Sylvain,’ not ‘Robert’ or ‘Charles’ or ‘Harold’ like his many aliases would suggest.

But Sylvain doesn’t feel like knowing himself right now, so he says, “Uh— sure, Mercie.”

“Sit down. I’m going to clean you up.”

“No can do,” Sylvain says, biting his tongue before he can slip one of his pet names in there. He’s usually very good at holding them back; they’re reserved solely for jobs, now. And, apparently, the occasional spitfire agent that fights like a wildcat and shakes Sylvain up so badly that he almost called Mercedes von Martritz ‘babe.’ “Gotta report back to the boss. You know how much he cares about results.”

Mercedes sighs, shaking her head. Her cropped blonde hair doesn’t dare fall out of place. There’s an effortless beauty to her that Sylvain has admired for almost as long as he has admired  _ her. _ Her exterior doesn’t hide anything lethal or toxic, just a kindness that matches the soft lavender shade of her eyes. (Sometimes his admiration fights envy, but he stomps that down.) “I guarantee Dimitri won’t like seeing you all bloody.”

Sylvain reaches up to scratch at the space below his nose. The blood has dried into a tacky-yet-flaky mess, and his hand comes away smudged. “I’ll handle it,” he says, turning and waving his now-red hand. “Take care of Ashe for me, yeah?”

As he steps outside of their makeshift infirmary, he hears her murmur into her wristband and fails to suppress a sigh. There’s no way he’s getting to Dimitri unimpeded; sure enough, as he navigates the halls to find him, he finds Ingrid moving to intercept him instead. She’s brisk, a cloth in her hand and a bowl of water in the other. Perfect.

He eyes the tools. “What do you have there?”

“Save it,” she says, tone just a hair softer than her general presence as she presses the damp cloth to his face.

Sylvain has enough agency to express his discontent with an  _ mmph. _

_ “Save it,” _ she repeats, and brushes along his mouth, his chin, his… cheeks? Huh. Apparently that bastard had better aim than Sylvain thought. “What did we say about playing it safe?” she asks, quiet as she brings the cloth away to dip it in the bowl.

Sylvain can’t look at her when she’s giving him that prying, concerned look. He doesn’t like it, doesn’t like being looked at as if there’s something worth seeing. Something worth caring about. “Ran into some trouble.”

“Trouble did a number on that nose you’re so proud of.”

“Well, Trouble had more to him than I thought. Fought like a wild animal once I got him down. Spat in my face.” His nose scrunches at the memory.

Ingrid’s brow furrows over her green eyes. “That doesn’t sound like a typical Eagle move.”

“He was an Eagle, trust me. I just don’t know who.”

Ingrid dabs along his cheeks again. “What did he look like?”

“Hm. Little taller than you, dark hair pulled back. Brown eyes. Permanent scowl.”

Ingrid’s hand slows, and her gaze darts to his before going back to her task. “Hm.”

“Know him?”

“Maybe.”

“Thought we didn’t keep secrets here, Ingrid.”

“We’re in a business built on secrets. I…” She shakes her head as she swipes at his cheek and drops the cloth into the bowl. She takes his chin in hand and turns his face this way and that. “I don’t know who he is. Ask Dimitri about him. It’s about time you reread the profiles of the Eagles anyway.”

Sylvain has bent over those things enough to know that won’t help him much, if at all. The information they have on their rival agency is scarce at best, and if the agent  _ was _ included in the lineup… To think he would remember that man— flaring eyes and a general ferocity matched only, perhaps, by Sylvain’s own leader. “Sure thing,” he says faintly. “You, uh. You gonna let go? Now that I think about it, I don’t want to meet Dimitri while armed to the teeth.”

“Does anything else hurt?” Ingrid releases him, gives him a once-over. “Mercedes said you were just a little nasally, but if there’s anything else—”

“I’m  _ fine.” _ Then, when she levels him with a look: “Promise.”

She smiles, but it’s a small thing. “We don’t make many promises in this line of work.”

“This isn’t work.” It’s out before Sylvain can grab the words and shove them back down his throat. “This is— this is just me. I promise, I’m okay. Even I know I’m more of a liability when injured.”

Ingrid stares at him, as if she’s about to say something more. But he shrugs past it, past  _ her, _ and starts walking to the little nook that has been designated his. It’s not much farther down the hall, wedged between Ingrid’s room and the one containing all the different equipment they may need for their endeavors. Ingrid doesn’t deem it necessary to chase him down, the sound of her footsteps growing fainter as he lets himself in and takes in the lovely scenery of his ‘office.’

It’s nothing special by any means. There’s a chair, a desk facing the door, and a cabinet underneath said desk filled with organized trinkets, gadgets, and things Sylvain deems worth keeping. A shelf stands along one of the walls, mainly filled with books of varying levels of readability and usefulness. The only thing that makes the place feel lived-in at all is the rug spread out in front of the desk— a plain, blood-red thing that offers just about the only sense of color in the eggshell-walled and wooden-floored room.

It was a gift when he first joined, handed to him by a smiling, tiny Annette.  _ So you can feel a little homey, here! _

Somehow, she caught wind that Sylvain didn’t have any home to go back to if this spy business went sour. Sylvain accepted, but he can’t remember if he smiled or not. He just remembers  _ Wow, you guys really want to keep me, huh? _

He’d brushed past it before she could actually comment on that part.

Now, Sylvain steps over the immaculate “homey” rug and to the bookshelf, pushing in one of the volumes until he hears a  _ click. _ When he turns back to his desk, the wall behind it has pushed in and revealed a much more secure storage compartment.

Then it’s a quick and efficient removal of all the excess gear on his person: the bulletproof vest (which lets Sylvain fucking  _ breathe _ once he removes it), the knife strapped to his bicep (unfortunately forgotten in the fight with that Eagle), and the pouches around his waist and thigh (full of bits and bobs for last resort actions). Maybe neglecting to bring a gun along was his bad, but no one got shot.

It was a close call, though. He  _ knows _ Ashe pulled the trigger somehow, and Sylvain’s Eagle had a gun trained on him for longer than ideal. Sylvain doesn’t care about that last part— if he gets shot, he gets shot. But the fact that Ashe shot… he needs to ask him what happened when he regains more of his reasoning skills. Sylvain only had time to register a passed out Ashe, an indifferent Eagle wearing a gas mask, and a wristband on the floor when he was able to stumble out with Ashe and crashed into his original assailant.

He reaches into his pocket now and pulls out said wristband, the casing cracked open from where Sylvain slammed the man’s wrists into the ground. It has to be useful for  _ something— _ he doesn’t know why he squatted to grab it, just that he’s glad he has  _ some _ bit of Eagle loot to show for his efforts.

He distinctly remembers Ashe, bleary and clumsy, making a vague gesture and saying something about Acheron _.  _ All Sylvain was able to do was make sure Ashe got out alive after he had so stupidly let him wander off alone, so the mission (on  _ his  _ end, at least) was nothing but a confusing blunder.

Ashe isn’t incapable, he can handle himself. But… Well, Sylvain’s time could have been spent in better ways than getting in a needless scuffle.

Once again, his mind brings him back to the Eagle. He scoffs and drops the wristband back into his pocket. There are better things to do than angrily reminisce. With any luck, he’ll never see him again. Or, wait, would that be the  _ unlucky _ scenario—?

He scoffs, a frown pulling at his face, and goes to find Dimitri.

* * *

Dimitri waits in the debriefing room, pacing back and forth with energy akin to a caged lion. Sylvain takes in the shaggy blond hair, hunched neck, and pale countenance of his employer before he properly announces himself. Dimitri Blaiddyd is a good man. He cares about justice and his loved ones. He also, however, is a little messed up— it feels like  _ everyone _ is in this organization— and it shows in moments like this, with Dimitri looking like any interruption will earn the perpetrator a chair thrown at their head.

Sylvain knows a few details of Dimitri’s story; he knows the man has no family left aside from Dedue, who has stuck with him through thick and thin. He also knows that he’s the reason the Lions have bad blood with the Eagles at all, considering he still clenches his jaw whenever they’re mentioned— specifically their leader. But Sylvain knows better than to pry where he isn’t welcome. He’s smart like that; it’s kept him alive so far.

Not that Dimitri would kill him. Probably.

Dimitri was the one who pulled him out of a hole and brought him into this crazy world of gadgets and ‘private investigation.’ It would be a waste to throw an investment like that away. And maybe it’s not that great to think of himself as an ‘investment,’ but when has that mattered?

“Hey, boss,” Sylvain says with a smile.

Dimitri looks up, and the stormy expression on his face eases up. It’s nothing dramatic, not like the sun coming back out from behind the clouds; if anything, it feels drawn into neutrality, like when the storm finally peters out and all that’s left are the gray skies and puddles yet to dry. “Sylvain. I’m glad to see you’re well.”

Always so formal. Sylvain’s smile leans over into a smirk. “More or less.”

“What happened in there? Dedue said you sounded frantic when you ordered an escape.”

That makes Sylvain wince. He hadn’t been  _ that _ frazzled, had he? “Ashe was barely-there when I got him out of that building. I think he got hit by some kind of knockout gas, and then the alarms started up.” He swallows. “Listen, I  _ know _ I may have panicked, but—”

“Don’t.” Dimitri’s voice cuts through whatever sorry excuses Sylvain was about to shower him with. He shakes his head, his single eye piercing. “I’m glad you two were able to escape safely. This was not supposed to be such a compromising mission, and…” He frowns, a crease between his brows appearing before he manages to smooth it away. “Dedue said you mentioned other things, as well. Things about the Eagles, and Acheron. You weren’t making much sense, however.”

“That’s what I’m here for now, right?”

Sylvain details the encounter: how they arrived on the scene after the Eagles, and Ashe went ahead to Acheron’s personal office while Sylvain kept an eye out for rogue birds; how he heard the Eagle before he saw him, and was able to brace himself for whatever was about to happen. (He doesn’t go into the details of his admittedly pitiful disguise, and Dimitri doesn’t press him.)

He frowns. “He said Acheron was  _ their _ client.”

Dimitri’s face flickers, brows furrowing again. “Did he, now?”

“He said a lot of other shit, but that— that sounded genuine. I had the guy pinned to the floor, he didn’t have much time to focus on an act.” Sylvain knows all the ins and outs of putting up an act, by now. He didn’t need to learn it when Dimitri gave him this gig.

“Do you know which Eagle it was?”

“No, uh…” Sylvain holds a hand up. “About this tall, mean as hell, dark hair, amber eyes.”

Dimitri’s eye narrows. Then it softens, and he sighs like he’s just had a whole new world placed on his shoulders. “Felix.”

So Ingrid wasn’t just running Sylvain around. “Felix?”

“Felix Fraldarius. One of the lesser-known Eagles, to be sure, but only because—” Dimitri pauses. He drums his fingers on the table between them, leaning over slightly to accommodate for his height. “We were affiliated, once. We grew up together.”

Sylvain’s eyebrows fly into his hairline. “You’re friends with an  _ Eagle?” _

Dimitri’s laugh sounds bitter and stuttering. “I was friends with Edelgard, too. It seems like those I’ve scorned tend to flock together.”

“I didn’t know you and Edelgard used to be close.”

“We weren’t. But… we were not enemies.”

When Dimitri doesn’t elaborate further, Sylvain switches tracks. “So there’s an Eagle I didn’t even know about.”

Dimitri’s drumming stops abruptly. “I did not intend to keep you in the dark. I… have not heard of or from Felix in a long while.” He turns his head, voice gone quiet as he murmurs to himself, “But I didn’t make much of an effort to do so, did I…?”

Sylvain feels like he’s on the edge of a cliff that will send him down a rabbit hole he has no place exploring. He doesn’t get a chance to step back from it before Dimitri is digging a photograph out of his wallet, placing it on the table. He turns it to face Sylvain.

In it is a younger Dimitri with one of the saddest haircuts Sylvain has ever seen. He’s smiling, which is already different from the Dimitri Sylvain knows now, but his smile looks more like something a mannequin wears. It almost brings a sense of uncanny valley. Next to him stands a shorter, frowning boy; he’s got long hair pulled into a severe bun, sharp brows, and one hell of a glare. His arms are crossed. There are others behind them, but Sylvain already feels like he has intruded enough. He looks back up to Dimitri.

“He looked like this, right?”

The resemblance is hard to miss. Apparently Felix Fraldarius lost some baby fat in the years he was away from Dimitri. “Yeah, he did.”

Dimitri hums and retrieves the photo, a small, distant frown on his face. “And did he…” His struggle to find the right words is obvious and a little pitiful, his mouth moving without sound for a moment before he asks, “Was he okay? Did he look alright?”

“He fought like a feral cat and spat blood in my face.”

Dimitri nods. “Sounds like Felix.”

“He’s  _ always _ been like that?” Considering the scowl he had in the photo…

“No.” Dimitri doesn’t elaborate.

Sylvain doesn’t ask him to, but he can’t help the curiosity bubbling around this hidden part of his boss’s life, this agent that dances between sides.

“I’ll talk to Acheron,” Dimitri continues. “About us, about the Eagles. I assure you: if he’s hiding something, I will ferret it out. Tomorrow, Dedue and I will be discussing the details of his upcoming gala with him, it should be as good a time as any. You all will be handed assignments accordingly.”

The gala that’s been in the works for about a month, now. “Got it. Do I need to get out my dancing shoes?”

Dimitri’s mouth twitches into what could be a smile. “I sincerely hope you still remember your social graces.”

Sylvain’s own smile feels brittle and sharp at the edges. “I’ve had those drilled into me since I was five. Don’t worry about that, sir.”

“I’ve told you, I prefer ‘Dimitri.’”

“Alright, then.” Still, the name feels like solid gold when Sylvain says it, like he has no right to hold the privilege of it. “Dimitri.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're the worst."
> 
> "And _you're_ in need of some measurements."

“I have to _what?”_

“For the third time,” Dorothea says, serenely unbothered as she sits across from where Felix stands with his palms smacked on the table, “we’re going to Acheron’s gala under the guise of providing security in order to follow up with the information Linhardt found in those files.”

“No, _after_ that.”

“And you are going to wear a dress.”

“What purpose is there to put me in a dress?”

Dorothea leans over the table’s edge, giving Felix a once-over that sets his blood boiling. “Legs,” she says, as if that’s an acceptable answer _anywhere._

“My legs have nothing to do with Acheron.”

“Come _on,_ Felix,” she wheedles, slowly falling down Felix’s rankings for favorite Eagles. “What’s the harm in it, huh? It’s not like you can wear a field outfit at a _gala._ Why not?”

Felix’s jaw clenches so hard he’s pretty certain he’s close to chipping his own teeth. “How am I supposed to fight in a dress?”

“I’ve never known you to back down from a challenge.”

Fuck. “I’m a man.”

“Linhardt’s worn a dress before.”

_Shit._ “I’m a man who _doesn’t wear dresses.”_

Dorothea _tsk_ s. “Pity.” Then, she gets that Cheshire grin that always speaks of nothing but trouble. She curls a lock of her wavy brown hair around her finger, thoughtful.

“Don’t you dare. Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Remember when I saved your ass at our _last_ formal operation? Your recklessness almost got you caught.”

Of course he remembers. Felix has a better handle on his temper and rash decisions than he did as a teenager, but sometimes the situations burn too brightly to just _ignore_ the fact that on some days, it feels like he’s a walking powder keg. But that’s the point of having partners like Dorothea, right? Partners who can draw attention away from you solely by virtue of their own skillset. He narrows his eyes. “Choose your next words carefully, Arnault.”

She laughs— it’s practically a chortle _,_ her hand raised to her mouth. “’Arnault,’ huh? Did I finally dig the thorn deep enough into your side to lose rights to ‘Dorothea?’”

Felix knocks on the table in response, biting his tongue to keep from saying something vicious.

Dorothea regards him through appraising green eyes, her grin crinkling the corners. “You said you owed me that night. Correct?”

“I owe you anything but me in a dress.”

“I beg to differ; you hate being indebted.”

Yes. Because being indebted to someone as devious as Dorothea Arnault leads to absurd situations like this. Felix drums his fingers along the table slowly as he feels his dignity slip away. “You’re the worst.”

“And _you’re_ in need of some measurements.”

* * *

He gets the details on the assignment shortly following Dorothea’s bargain. Acheron’s holding a gala stuffed to the brim with elites of both the political and economic spectra, which… isn’t unusual, all things considered. They knew of this weeks before, when plans first started for the event. No, the odd part came when Acheron apparently admitted that the Eagles would not be the only agency there under his employ. Hubert recounts the details with a twitch in his jaw when he explains that Acheron hoped they would cooperate with a little organization called the Blue Lions in order to ensure a perfectly safe event.

Not suspicious at all.

“Does he know about our relationship with the Lions?” Felix asks, arms crossed. He can only assume he’s one of the last to get this specific briefing.

Hubert stands as unaffected as ever, damn near _looming_ with how obscenely tall he is. Paired with his long limbs and pale cliff-edge countenance, he looks every bit the Gothic horror villain a name like _Hubert von Vestra_ emulates. “He mentioned knowing about a sort of ‘friendly rivalry,’” he says, spider-like hands reaching to carve out air-quotes. “His nonchalance leaves something to be desired. Therefore, our mission is twofold; we’ll be there as security for Acheron’s endeavors, but we will also be keeping an eye on our… _partners.”_ He says the word like one would describe an infestation of rats.

“What’s my part in this?”

“You’ll be on the floor. Bernadetta and I will be in more covert positions, with Miss Hresvelg staying by the side of Acheron at his own request.”

“His own request,” Felix repeats.

Hubert’s jaw clenches again. “She will not be left alone with a potential snake in our midst, I assure you.”

“So be it.” Hubert’s devotion to Edelgard borders on the obsessive to the untrained eye, but Felix has grown used to their particular rapport; the soft touches, the kind of understanding glances that can only be shared between two people that have been through some kind of hell and back together. He recognizes it dimly with equal parts envy and pity. “What else?”

Hubert arches a single thin eyebrow. “Else?”

“You’ve approached me alone, instead of briefing me in a group setting. Is there something else I’m supposed to look out for?”

“Dimitri Blaiddyd is expected to be there.”

There it is.

“And judging by your expression, you can glean about as much as I’m at liberty to tell you about why, exactly, I approached you individually.” Damn it, he sounds so fucking _smug_ sometimes. “Take it as a warning, though for what is up to your own interpretation.”

It could mean _I know your rocky history, and want to ensure you don’t freeze up when you see him again for the first time in ages_ or _One wrong move, and I’ll be able to pin you as a double traitor._

Felix fists his hand in his sleeve. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you have any more questions?”

One. “What are the odds this assignment could turn violent?”

Hubert adjusts his gloves— the ones he always wears, black and disappearing under the edge of his sleeves. “They resemble all other odds we face on this job. We don’t know whether to treat Acheron as a malicious benefactor or not, yet. Are you worried about your ability to perform?”

“… No. What’s the dress code?”

“It’s a formal gala. I would think you, like the vast majority of us, would already know what to expect.”

“Say I’m rusty.”

“Then ask Dorothea.” Hubert waves a hand, and if he knows he has just doomed Felix to the gallows, he only shows it in the glint of his mint green eyes as he passes him on his way elsewhere. “I’m sure she’d gladly address your predicament.”

* * *

Felix finds himself in their records room, next. He tends to get himself worked up into single-minded intensities, which make him lose the larger scope of things if he’s not too careful. When he returned from his infiltration with Linhardt the night before, he had been too busy stewing and getting checked for a concussion (negative, though he’s still got a hell of a bump) to think about studying the cause of so much of his ire.

Their files on the Lions are sparse at best. Both of their agencies know the importance of remaining out of the public eye and keeping their cards held to their chests. However, they have scant photos and basics on each member of the Blue Lions they’re able to find, and— well, maybe it’s been a while since Felix has actually thoroughly studied these reports.

He skims through the first few names, lip curling as he flicks past _Blaiddyd, Dimitri A._ He has to check the photos on file for the next two names, but they both appear to be women— he almost gets caught on _Dominic, Annette F._ ’s profile thanks to her hair, but it’s too light to match the shade of the scarlet idiot Felix met last night. When he _does_ find a photo that matches the face Felix has in his memory, he frowns.

_Gautier, Sylvain J._ is simultaneously the best and worst documented Lion Felix has seen. His folder has the general basics— an estimation of his height, weight, and appearance, his supposed interactions within the Lions, and his role. Among other things. But along with that are clippings.

News articles and columns, all speaking of a _Gautier fortune_ and _criminal allegations._ All dates of the articles are highlighted thoroughly, which brings Felix to the realization that supposedly all news of the apparently wealthy Gautier family dropped off the face of the earth after a fallout between the family and its eldest son. _Sylvain Gautier, heir to the family assets,_ Felix skims, _declined requests for comment._

The patriarch of the Gautier family seems to have fallen into silence, stepping back from the public eye, and Sylvain… Well, it seems like Sylvain ran from it, instead chasing after a life of secrecy where you change identities like you change clothes.

Felix frowns at the clippings. Few have good pictures of Sylvain— _no, Gautier—_ himself. In fact, the only one with him even remotely in focus isn’t even from a clipping. It’s a separate photograph, showing Sylvain and someone else from behind, discussing something animatedly. Sylvain has a bright grin on his face, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. Felix can tell that much even from the odd angle the photo’s taken from. There’s a plant intruding from the edge of the picture— Bernadetta’s doing, no doubt. She’s good with a camera, but also takes subterfuge to the extreme.

In the margins of the photo is a thin, crawling scrawl that Felix recognizes Hubert’s handwriting. _Charmer: Harrier or Kite?_ it reads, referencing the code names of Ferdinand and Dorothea, respectively.

So Sylvain Gautier’s a talker. That doesn’t surprise Felix, actually— he couldn’t shut up when they got caught up in each other last night. But that means he’s _dangerous,_ because it also means he’s clever— more clever than using old tricks that Felix absolutely shouldn’t have fallen for.

He grits his teeth. So he won’t underestimate Gautier, easy. With any luck, he won’t even have to deal with the bastard at the gala— but if he thrives in a social environment like Ferdinand and Dorothea, the Lions would be stupid not to employ him. His wealthy background surely wouldn’t hurt his etiquette, either.

Then again, Felix grew up in elite circles, too. Doesn’t mean he’s not a fucking tragedy at meet-and-greets. Though, that’s more of a choice than anything else. He _knows_ how to act, he just… really, _really_ doesn’t want to play that game anymore.

Hopefully Hubert isn’t expecting him to schmooze. He’ll leave that to the socialite agents. He’s never tried it, but he’s certain he can manage to look intimidating enough to scare off potential dance partners even in a dress.

Maybe that’ll be his condition for Dorothea. He’ll wear it, as long as he still looks like _himself._

When he brings it up with her later, begrudging and unable to meet her amused gaze for more than a few moments, she laughs. “Well, of course! I’ll be sure to give you a look that’ll kill.”

That doesn’t sound so bad, actually.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And don't call me _'sweetheart'_ again if you value your tongue."
> 
> "Promises, promises."

A week later, as they’re driving to the venue— Acheron’s estate, the blueprints of which have been memorized by damn near every Eagle— Hubert offers Felix a smirk that feels eerily similar to the one Dorothea had given him when she presented him with her absurd outfit.

Felix glares back. Maybe the makeup ( _classy but sharp,_ in Dorothea’s words) actually does do something to accentuate his vitriol, because Hubert’s gaze slides from him like oil over water as he goes over everyone’s assignment one more time— or, as he has everyone recite their roles back to him.

Ferdinand and Dorothea are on social detail. Their job is to cozy up to Acheron’s inner circle and catch any gossip they can. Hubert and Bernadetta will survey from set places, with Hubert on the main floor and Bernadetta on the indoor balcony bordering the ballroom. The rest, aside from Edelgard herself, will be on standby at the gala, keeping eyes out for trouble or suspicious activity.

They’ve each got mics this time. Felix’s rests snugly around his throat— a Dorothea-sanctioned accessory.

The outfit she picked out for him isn’t _egregious._ It’s a dark, navy blue, and swishes down to his ankles in layers of what he now knows is chiffon. The most offensive thing about it is the amount of skin it manages to show off even with the floor-length skirt. (Fuck, he’s wearing a _skirt._ ) It shows off _far_ too much of his back, and the way the neckline dips is obscene. Both details become even more noticeable on the way from their vehicles to the inner estate, with the air brushing against Felix’s skin in ways that are far too intimate.

“How are you holding up, _Fraldarius?”_ Dorothea asks, mirthful and terrible.

He scowls back so hard that Bernadetta, who unwittingly found herself walking between them, yelps and ducks back.

“Codenames,” Hubert reminds them.

“What kind of protection will this frivolous thing give me?” Felix asks, nearly spitting.

“Were you expecting a bulletproof vest? We’re at a dance.”

Dorothea has a point, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. He’ll get revenge one day. For now, he just has to focus on keeping his scowl on his face, like some sort of social shield.

He manages to slink away before Hresvelg, Blaiddyd, and their right hands meet Acheron to report for their services of the night. He barely hears Acheron’s too-affected tone trill over _Oh, so you two_ have _met already? Perfect, perfect._ before he’d found his way to the ballroom with the others, but he still feels like he’s too big for his body, aching to act out.

Once things get lively, Felix finds that his severe expression works. It keeps a fair number of people from approaching him for a dance, and the string of rejections he’s left in his wake for those who _did_ think they could get past his glare has set a good precedent. Still, the entire affair has his skin _itching_ with how badly he wants to do something, _start_ something.

He could go looking for trouble again, but starting a fight at Acheron’s gala isn’t exactly what Felix is supposed to be doing. He _is_ security, but any squabbles should be kept out of the public eye unless they face an ‘extenuating circumstance,’ as Hubert would put it.

Besides, there’s only one person he’d like to throw down with right now. One person whose lights he’d like to knock out for the audacity he displayed when they first met— the audacity to knock Felix to the floor and call him _sweetheart_ in the same breath. Fucking prick. Glaring at his photo in the records wasn’t enough.

Maybe Sylvain Gautier is the ‘trouble’ Felix is looking for.

_Sound off,_ comes Hubert’s voice in his earpiece. It’s a subtle thing that hides in his hair— the inane style Dorothea forced on him utilizes longer strands in the front to fall over his ears.

“Hawk here,” he says when he can, reciting his codename he never really learned to love. Then, it’s chatter— small talk, honestly. Felix tunes the voices out when it becomes obvious that people like Ferdinand are talking to someone aside from their teammates— the least he can do is mute himself, right?

Then again, Hubert wanted to hear everything he could. Felix admires his ability to be so thorough, but it’s also incredibly tedious.

There are servants aside from the agents, of course— thankfully, Acheron wouldn’t debase them enough to make them serve pompous assholes fine glasses of champagne. But it leaves Felix without anything to occupy his hands. He can’t exactly play with a knife— that’s _definitely_ not proper social etiquette. Besides, the one knife he has this time around is strapped to his thigh, matching a small gun on his other one. Both are details that make him grimace.

_You wanted to look like ‘Felix,’_ Dorothea reminded him earlier in the evening. Fine.

He spies a few familiar faces— Petra’s tux wouldn’t normally make her stand out, except for the fact that her tie matches her vibrant hair. Ferdinand’s doing remarkably well at pulling off an embroidered suit jacket. He even thinks he sees the slight, red-haired woman from the files— Annette Dominic.

He catches golden blond hair on an unfairly tall set of shoulders at Acheron’s side, but he turns with a crisp swishing of his skirts before he can see too much of the Lions’ leader. Not tonight. He doesn’t need to deal with that on top of everything else.

His eyes catch on ‘trouble’ next. This time, Gautier looks fucking _debonair_ in a suit that’s tailored far too well, hair artfully done, eyes sharp even from this distance as they focus on so-and-so over a glass of champagne. He’s got a red tie and a wandering gaze, one that gently sifts through the crowd. No doubt keeping an eye out for his team, maybe even Felix’s.

But fuck, he looks— he looks _infuriating._ Felix reaches for a passing server’s tray, taking a carefully teetered glass of champagne of his own and downing it to the confusion and probable dismay of said server. In his ear, he hears Bernadetta clear her throat. _Careful, Hawk,_ she explains quietly. _That stuff seems strong._

_No one should be drinking,_ Hubert chides, his voice low and cool over Bernadetta’s barely-there mumble. _We are here as security, not guests._

_Can’t blame him for having a little fun,_ Dorothea says, her grin evident. _How strong can champagne be, anyway? What’s wrong, Hawk? Feeling the pressure?_

“Go to hell,” Felix mutters. _She’s_ the reason he’s here looking like _this,_ downing expensive alcohol before making questionable decisions. But without the ability to stick too closely to his teammates and an aversion to anything close to dancing with strangers, it’s either furiously try to ignore Dimitri’s presence (and therefore becoming all the more aware of it) or confront Gautier a second time. Felix hasn’t figured out _how_ exactly he’s going to confront him and stay ‘proper,’ but he’ll figure it out. Adaptability is one of the tenets of being an agent.

Maneuvering around everyone is a hassle in and of itself, but it’s not hard to scare people out of his way, especially since just the sight of Gautier has him fuming. Rich bastard. Rich, handsome bastard.

(Never mind the fact that Felix himself comes from money— he gave all that up when he lost everyone. Gautier ran from his family, Felix watched his be stolen away.)

Felix tunes out the occasional mutterings from his earpiece again, reaching to mute his collar mic in a motion that would look more like he was scratching his neck to anyone else. Gautier’s watching a woman with dark red hair walk away, his brow furrowed ever-so-slightly and lips moving as if he doesn’t notice Felix marching up to him until the last minute. Probably talking to more Lions.

Well. At least Felix can keep his eye on one.

* * *

“You look so familiar, are you sure we haven’t met before?”

Sylvain grins past the roiling venom in his stomach. “I’m sure I would have remembered a face like yours, beautiful. All the more reason to celebrate our meeting now, right?”

The woman titters, hiding her prim laugh behind a hand clad in a white satin glove that goes straight to her elbow. Her dress is long, black, and accented with a pearl necklace. Her hair, a rich shade of red, sits artfully piled on her head with pins such that two individual curling strands frame each side of her face. Aside from the sprig of snapdragon tucked behind one ear (likely swiped from one of the many flower arrangements Acheron has had placed), she looks exactly like all the other people Sylvain’s father would have had him sidling up to in a place like this, ready to smooth talk his way to the benefit of both of their families.

Hysterical, how far away those times seem now. But the sentiment behind them is no less disgusting, and Sylvain finds himself holding down a grimace as she flutters her eyelashes at him. She’s not an Eagle, he has no reason to indulge in anything. Not that he wants to, anyway; he’s… not in the mood for his standard behavior, on this mission.

He looks out over the crowd, surprisingly meager for such a venue, and catches sight of Ingrid’s blonde hair. She’s in a tux, entertaining a brunette in a red dress whose face he can’t see. As he spots Ingrid’s eyes go wide and hears the surprised titter of laughter in his earpiece that matches her mouth’s movements, Sylvain wonders what it would be like if they didn’t have to be ‘on’ at all times. If they could go to parties like this and enjoy themselves.

Then again, he _never_ enjoyed himself at rich galas when Sylvain Gautier still existed in the public eye, so maybe that doesn’t matter.

The woman sighs, the noise dragging his gaze back to her. “You won’t ask me to dance,” she says, though there’s no hostility in her tone.

Sylvain has grown well out of the habit of blushing at such blunders. “My apologies, would you—”

She raises a hand. “Don’t. Dancing in these heels is always hell. You wouldn’t know.”

His lips quirk. “Try me.”

An arched brow raises high on her fair face, red eyes studying him up and down. “You probably have the legs for it,” she muses, and the careful propriety of it all is swiped away with a wry grin. “You don’t belong here either, do you?”

Sylvain smiles past the tiny alarm in his head. “I don’t know if I understand the question.”

Instead of answering, she extends a gloved hand to him. “Monica von Ochs.”

He takes it in his own. “Percival. Call me Percy.” One of his many names— there are too many people his father may have known, he can’t risk his identity.

Monica grins like they’re sharing secrets. “Any last name, Percy?”

“Still trying to climb the social ladder, Monica?”

She keeps smiling, and Sylvain _really_ doesn’t like how piercing her stare is. Like she’s trying to dissect him all of a sudden— like Sylvain _hasn’t_ been building walls protecting him from that very thing since he was ten. “I suppose not, if you’re so averse to it. Maybe because you have nothing to offer?”

God, that may be the first time Sylvain’s heard that in this situation. But at the same time, he feels like a pinned bug, and Monica’s the taxidermist. “Maybe I’m not looking for takers.”

Monica gives him one more once-over. Sylvain bares his teeth in his own smile. “Alright,” she says. “Then I should look for partners elsewhere.” She turns her head to the crowd, amusement lighting her expression. “Looks like you’re attracting attention, anyway.”

“What—” Sylvain turns his head to the direction she was indicating, then turns to look back at her, but she— she’s already heading closer to the center of the room towards Acheron’s inner ring, the trail of her black dress in a sea of brighter colors being the only indication that she even existed.

“Enjoy the champagne, Percy!”

_—vain? Sylvain, answer me._

“What?” he asks, looking for Ingrid again. “What’s wrong?”

_You were gone the entire time you were talking to that person,_ she explains, exasperated and huffing. _I thought we were going to lose you to a pretty face._

“Come on,” he says, and smiles despite there being no one to see it. “You know me better than that, don’t you?”

There’s no response, because no, they don’t. Because he has purposefully avoided giving any of them reason to expect anything else from him. Because Sylvain has clung to his mask like a lifeline, even after disappearing from the life that required it.

He sighs. “Right. So, she interfered with the signal. I couldn’t hear any of you.” He feels guilt prickle in his stomach. Ingrid hadn’t even bothered with his codename when trying to get a response— probably too irritated to remember.

_Who was she?_ she asks.

“Definitely not Monica von Ochs,” he grumbles. “We’ll run that name through when we get this over with.”

He would ask Ashe or Annette to look it up _now,_ but everyone’s been brought in for this job. Sylvain has the locations of every Lion in his head already, and he continuously casts glances in their last known spots to make sure he can keep an eye on them.

The Eagles are an unwelcome addition to the plan, but they’re also supposed to be cooperating with them. Sylvain can spare his attention on them in order to make sure his own team stays safe.

_Noted._ Dedue, now. _Cheetah, do you have sights on her?_

_Of course!_ Ashe says. _What kind of lookout would I be?_

_Ochs,_ Dimitri murmurs. _The name sounds familiar._ Then another voice, barely there; Acheron. Dimitri replies, _Oh, nothing, sir—_

Sylvain hums. You can’t talk to yourself _too_ much without drawing suspicion, even in a chatty ballroom such as this. But there’s not much company he _wants_ to keep here, and since he can’t attach himself to one of his teammates’ sides—

“Having fun?”

He knows that voice.

“You,” he says, before he can catch himself.

The first thing he _really_ notices is the dress. A navy, halter-topped thing. Then he notices the hair— up, but not in the severe tail it was in before. It’s styled, has to be. The third thing he notices is the man wearing all this, and how unlikely it is that _he_ was the one to do that styling. Spitting, vicious Felix Fraldarius is _not_ the type to wear a dress for shits and giggles. Sylvain can deduce that much even if he only knows how the guy fights,

All the more reason to take his time taking it all in. You know, to celebrate the gift he’s just been given.

He wonders who got Fraldarius into this. He briefly considers thanking them.

He blinks.

Fraldarius glares at him, and, shit, even _that_ looks pretty— what the fuck? He crosses his arms over his chest, which just brings to attention the fact that his _neckline_ does _that,_ and— “So you weren’t lying,” Felix says, cautiously venomous. “About Acheron.”

Composure. Right. The job. “Do I look like the kind of guy who’d lie to you, gorgeous?”

Ingrid scoffs in his ear. _Typical._

He really, _really_ wishes he didn’t have a mic right now. Especially when Fraldarius’s face contorts into a scowl, lifting his chin defiantly like that will do _anything_ to make Sylvain cower away. Far from it. _Shit._

Fraldarius’s eyes dart to Sylvain’s ear, catching on the near-translucent piece settled around the curve of it. Unnoticeable to a civilian, but to those in this line of work… Well, Sylvain’s not being discreet by any means. _Then again,_ Sylvain notes, taking in the choker mic on his newfound companion, _neither is he._

“Absolutely,” Fraldarius says, and his eyes narrow.

Ingrid snickers in Sylvain’s ear, and he smiles past the rising indignation, a hand pressed to his chest. “Your words cut me to the core, as always.” He winks. It’s smooth, easy. “Sweetheart.”

Irritation is so easy to spark in that copper gaze, but Sylvain feels vindicated all the same when he sees it. “And _yours_ are as idiotic as ever.”

“Good comeback. Is there a reason you’ve come to sneer at me, or…?”

Fraldarius’s jaw clenches. Sylvain traces the line of it with lazy, controlled eyes. Like this, his predicament is a tactic— a way to piss Fraldarius off further. Not because he’s deliberately trying to start a fight with what’s supposed to be a cooperative party, but… because it’s fun. Sylvain _doesn’t_ stare just because he’s admiring the fine curve of it, and how easy he thinks it would be to hold it in his hand to drag this spitfire closer and—

“Dance with me,” Fraldarius says.

What a nice opportunity. How kind of him to offer a way to observe at least one Eagle, just like Dimitri ordered. Sylvain’s ever so gracious in offering a hand, leading Fraldarius out as the musicians strike up a new song— something lilting and heavy on strings. It isn’t until they get settled, Sylvain leading, that Fraldarius speaks again, lifting so that he’s speaking quietly into Sylvain’s left ear. The one without an earpiece.

“And don’t call me _‘sweetheart’_ again if you value your tongue.”

“Promises, promises,” Sylvain murmurs back, and then they’re dancing. It’s fun, watching Fraldarius school his features into something more neutral, considering the impressive glare he’s so obviously holding down.

The dancing itself goes as well as expected; Sylvain’s been taught this since he was a child, and Fraldarius seems to know his way around a standard waltz. Granted, Sylvain would rather not be stuck in a stuffy waltz, but there isn’t much else to do at this glorified party.

“Are there any other objectives your little nest is up to?” Sylvain asks, turning his partner about. His voice is low, too low for their earpieces now and faint enough for only the two of them to hear.

“I should ask _you_ as much.”

“Would you believe me if I said I just wanted to have some fun on the job?”

“After looking at your record, yeah, I would.”

Sylvain lets loose a low whistle. “My _record,_ huh? So you’ve done your homework. What’d you read? I bet it has all sorts of nice things to say.” There are many things it _could_ say, from Sylvain’s specialties to his history with his family. A small part of him wants to hope Fraldarius didn’t latch onto that part, but this guy looks like he knows how to twist the knife once it’s dug in. Sylvain just has to try to dodge this particular knife.

“Enough to know that it’s a shock you didn’t have a partner already.”

Ouch. “What’s wrong with being a people pleaser?”

“Who said it was wrong?”

“No one, but I can’t ignore that seething contempt you’ve got in your eyes forever. Still sore about _losing?”_

Fraldarius politely steps on his foot. “Oops,” he says, deadpan. “It’s been a while since I’ve danced.”

Sylvain bites the inside of his cheek and tries to ignore how much he wants to take Felix Fraldarius apart piece by piece. This newfound attraction explains why he hasn’t been able to get that fiery gaze off his mind. But even Sylvain knows which ledges aren’t worth jumping off of. “I figured you’re more of an action guy. This pompous circle isn’t for you, but that just makes me _more_ curious about the dress.”

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop right there.”

_Oh, when have I ever known what’s good for me?_ Or maybe Sylvain has always known what’s good for him. That’s why it’s so easy to avoid whatever it is at all costs, like he does now when he smiles and says, “Just wondering what the tactical advantage is, here. I’m not sure your attitude matches up with a seduction role.”

“I am _not_ in a _seduction role—”_

“See? Just like that.”

Fraldarius steps too close for a proper dance, their chests nearly touching as he hisses, “You’re trying to piss me off.”

“And I’m pretty good at it too, sweetheart.”

“You—!” Fraldarius’s hand slips from his shoulder to his lapel, gripping hard and sending them to a harsh stop. “You need to watch your fucking mouth.”

“I’d rather watch yours.”

It’s either the worst or the best thing to say, considering Sylvain shocks even himself with it. He keeps a smile, watching and waiting for a response. The thing is, this isn’t an ordinary ‘target’— this is Felix Fraldarius, whose cheeks turn the lightest shade of pink as his eyes dart down to Sylvain’s mouth.

Oh.

Sylvain reaches for his earpiece, muting himself. _Oh._

“What’s wrong with you?” Fraldarius hisses. “It’s like you’re asking to get stabbed.”

Sylvain makes a show of darting his gaze down. “So that _is_ a knife on your thigh and you’re not just happy to see—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll take your eyes. The knife is nearly undetectable under these layers.”

“But you admit there’s a knife,” Sylvain says. Fraldarius swears under his breath. “Has anyone ever told you that you’d be prettier if you smiled more?” Really, he’s just trying to crack a joke. Fraldarius has walked up to him and dialed the tension up to 11, and Sylvain’s supposed to sit and take it?

Fraldarius’s brow furrows further. Sylvain grins back.

Whatever he’s doing, it’s _fun_ , especially when— “Remember, _you_ approached _me.”_

“I wanted to teach you a lesson.”

“Some lesson you’re teaching. I’m here shaking in my dancing shoes. Speaking of: are we going to dance or will you keep us standing here looking like idiots for the rest of the night?”

Fraldarius looks down at his hand in Sylvain’s jacket, then his eyes dart at the corners towards the people around them. They’re all too self-absorbed to properly notice two people going against the flow of movement, but he scoffs all the same and releases Sylvain like it burns him. “You’re infuriating,” he says, before turning on his heel and retreating from the dancing.

Sylvain follows because he’s a wonderful conversationalist. “Ooh, that’s a new one. You do realize we’re partners now, right?”

“Over my dead body.”

“But we’re supposed to be cooperating. I doubt we have very different objectives tonight.”

When they find a spot along the wall, secluded behind a pillar and away from the thick of everything, Fraldarius’s gaze darts to Sylvain’s. “Sure.”

Sylvain’s smile cools. Jackpot— the Eagles are watching the Lions just like the Lions are watching the Eagles. “So it wouldn’t kill you to be a little nicer to me. Did you really just come up to me to spout threats?”

The lack of response is enough of an answer.

“You’re hopeless,” Sylvain sighs. It doesn’t come out as much of an insult as he would hope— no, this purposeful antagonism that Fraldarius wears just as well as he wears that dress is refreshing, honestly. None of the Lions act like this. “How do the Eagles tolerate that attitude of yours?”

“They don’t piss me off. Unlike some people.”

A non-answer. “Did I leave that big of an impression? I’m honored.”

Fraldarius sidesteps so that he’s standing in front of Sylvain. The energy he exudes is enough to convince Sylvain he’s properly caged up by the wall now, with little else to do but take him in.

“You haven’t asked what I learned about _you,”_ Sylvain offers, because he can’t go one night without flirting with danger.

“I don’t care what you learned,” Fraldarius says, and wow, he’s _really_ close. The scant lighting in this little alcove just accentuates his features, cutting harsh shadows across his face and making him look— well. _Well._ “Whatever your imbecile of a leader has to say about me, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Your violent, feral _fool.”_

Something ugly turns over in Sylvain’s stomach. “I wouldn’t talk about him like that, if I were you.”

“Or what? You’ll go tell him? He knows damn well what I think of him.”

Sylvain thinks of the way Dimitri’s eye went far-away and hazy, how he’d murmured to himself in soothing tones over this same topic. _What the hell happened with you two?_ “He misses you.” It sounds like an accusation more than anything else.

It works, because Fraldarius’s eyes go wide for a moment before he breaks into a fresh snarl. He crowds into Sylvain’s space. “Don’t lie to me. That man doesn’t know how to miss anyone anymore. Don’t look at me like he’s changed, I know him better than anyone.”

Sylvain glares back, the back of his head hitting the wall. “Watch your temper. How can you know a man you haven’t seen in years?”

“You’re talking about things you know nothing about.”

“I won’t let you sit here and smear my— my boss’s name like this.” Sylvain catches himself before he can say ‘friend.’ His hands settle on Fraldarius’s waist. It’s enough of an affectionate gesture to not cause alarm were anyone to find them, but he’s ready to shove him away if he thinks of coming any closer.

“Get your hands off me.”

“Then back off, and stop talking about Dimitri like you have any idea who he is anymore.”

He watches emotions fly over Fraldarius’s face. Rage, so strong that Sylvain’s surprised he doesn’t find a knife in his gut, passes first. Then something dimmer, no doubt dampened by the realization that an inter-agency spat isn’t something either of them need right now. He throws Sylvain’s hands off of him with no small amount of disgust, stepping back. “You’re a fool for thinking you know anything about him.”

Maybe he’s right. Sylvain can take that. Anyone can call him a fool— he’s heard worse, _far_ worse. He draws the line when people start attacking those he— he cares about. He may not know the story between Dimitri and Felix Fraldarius, but he knows he trusts one of them more than the other.

They regard each other silently for a few moments. Sylvain’s glad they’re out of easy sight, because he knows there’d be no way to explain what just happened to anyone, let alone his team. When his pulse eases into something safe, he offers an olive branch. “Our host will be giving a speech any minute now. Then this will be over, and you won’t have to deal with _any_ of the Lions for however long you want.”

Fraldarius looks away from him, grunting.

“Until then, why don’t we start over? I’d love to know the name of the handsome man I just danced with—”

“I already know who you are, Gautier.”

He spits ‘Gautier’ like it’s a swear. Sylvain appreciates that. “Not even going to humor me, Fraldarius?”

“I’d rather drink arsenic.”

Sylvain laughs then, a harsh bark of a sound, and confusion flashes across Fraldarius’s face when he glances up again. He opens his mouth, maybe to ask what he’s on about, but he thinks better of it, jaw clenching tight enough that Sylvain catches the twitch of it. At least he’s learning to hold his vicious tongue.

It’s about as much of a truce that Sylvain thinks he’ll ever get out of him. He’d offer something else to set him at ease, but he’s having a hard time calming _himself_ down from Fraldarius’s riling. Sylvain was proud of how easily he could get this guy to snap, but now he knows he isn’t immune to Fraldarius, either.

“I’m still trying to figure out why you came up to me,” he says instead. “This can’t just be a grudge thing for you.” A probe, maybe: _Are you studying me?_

“I’m better in the field. Sitting here, passing the time, _chatting…_ They’re not my specialties.”

“So you’re looking for action.” Sylvain bites his tongue before he can continue, _And you came to me._ No, he doesn’t need to start that time bomb again. He just defused it— he thinks.

“I’m looking for a _distraction.”_ The words are quiet and muttered. Fraldarius stares down to the side as he continues in a snap: “And not— not _whatever_ you’re about to say. These festivities, the opulence— it’s abhorrent. They’d all rather sit and pat each other’s asses than anything else. Herding up like a bunch of toxic sheep.”

Sylvain thinks that means he’s uncomfortable here. Makes sense, considering he’d rather look at someone even vaguely familiar (despite apparently hating him) than at the people back out from behind their little hideaway. Surprisingly, Sylvain finds himself agreeing with him. Maybe even relating. “Okay.” He thinks of Dimitri’s photograph, of the younger Felix with a permanent scowl on his face, and wonders if there’s anything else he can dig up under that scowl. “And you won’t leave because you won’t abandon the mission.”

“Look at you, so smart.”

“I try my best.”

Thankfully, they don’t have to exchange any more tense words because Acheron calls for everyone’s attention. Sylvain moves from behind the pillar to watch him and recognizes Felix doing much the same.

“I would like to thank you all for coming,” Acheron intones, voice amplified over the crowd by a mic no doubt fastened to his collar. “As always, it’s a pleasure to be able to call each and every one of you my esteemed guests. Which is why what I’m about to do will bring me a substantial amount of regret.”

_What’s he mean?_ Annette asks, her bubbly voice gone quiet.

_He has something in his hand,_ Dedue says in his own low tone.

Sure enough, Acheron’s got something held almost reverently in his hands, a familiar smile on his face. Not familiar on _him,_ maybe, but Sylvain’s had plenty of experience of grins with no good intentions behind them to recognize one, even from this distance.

“What’s that in his hands?” he murmurs.

Fraldarius _hmphs._ “A remote? How should I know?”

Acheron continues, “My compliments to the musicians tonight, along with those providing our refreshments. I assume everyone has been able to sample the champagne?”

Fraldarius _hmphs_ again.

“Letting your vices take advantage of you?” Sylvain asks a little too lightly.

“It’s _your_ fault,” Fraldarius spits back.

“It’s to die for, truly.” Acheron spreads his arms, looking oh-so-proud of himself. “Good thing I’m a gracious host; I’ll let you all go with a warning.”

_A warning? Has anyone had the champagne?_ Ashe prompts, voice hurried in Sylvain’s ear over the hushed murmurs that break out throughout the room. _I didn’t think to keep an eye on what you all drank—_

_No._ Mercedes, this time. _We never drink anything but water. Professionalism, right?_

_Correct._ Dedue. _We can’t allow ourselves to be hindered._

“You see,” Acheron continues, “We’re all powerful people. That’s why we gather like this, yes? To flaunt our wealth, our status, our dominion over each other.”

“Has a point,” Sylvain mutters, conversational. Fraldarius grunts at him, probably intended as a _shut up._ But Sylvain can’t miss the way Fraldarius has become jittery, like he’s ready to bolt into action. He’s got his arms crossed over his chest, jaw set.

“It’s all a grab for power, for position.” Acheron gestures with the device in his hands— from this distance, Sylvain can make out little else than the fact that Fraldarius was right in thinking it was a remote. “We know our rivals, we know our competition. But some of us just aren’t cut out to climb the ladder. Some _are._ And some will do anything to keep their spot at the top.”

_I don’t know what he’s doing,_ Dimitri mutters. Sylvain sees him, lips moving from across the room, his eye trained on Acheron. _I thought this would be a wrap-up of the night. He didn’t mention this._

_He wouldn’t,_ Sylvain thinks.

“Ah, but I’m rambling. What I mean to say is: to all the dogs trying to scramble their way up to me, to try to take what’s rightfully _mine_ in this world…”

Sylvain shifts as unease builds up under his skin. Acheron sounds every bit like the life he left behind, the father he left to clean up their family name on his own while Sylvain himself fled from the status, the money, the power. “Felix,” he says, “did you drink the champagne?”

Felix looks back at him, wariness flashing in his amber eyes, and Acheron says, “Good night.”

He makes a show of pressing something on that remote of his. A brief, tense silence passes over the room, with people looking around with darting gazes and hands clutching to their belongings. Then, it’s a scramble. People start falling. Those who don’t start screeching instead. The Lions in Sylvain’s ear burst into frenzied orders. Mercedes, their only true medic, goes into motion. Dedue orders for everyone to lead an evacuation, to bring those unaffected out of the manor and try to prevent a stampede.

To Ashe, their eye in the sky, Dimitri says, _Take the shot._

Acheron shrieks when Ashe’s specialized tranquilizer inevitably lands true, but Sylvain can’t have the satisfaction of seeing the cocky bastard tumble because there’s someone else tumbling into him.

“Don’t say—” Felix’s hands claw at Sylvain’s jacket, a snarl on his lips as his legs give out. “Don’t you _dare_ say _anything—”_

Sylvain hurries to steady him, arms going around him while Felix growls and spits. He doesn’t immediately go under like the other victims have. Instead, he goes sluggish and no less raging, a bubbling bottle of lava tossed into Sylvain’s care. It’s all he can do to keep them both from going straight to the ground; Felix is heavier than he looks, and despite his apparent resistance to the agent laced in the champagne, he’s still losing motor function fast.

“Fucking—” He’s starting to slur now, too, like his mouth won’t move right. “Le’go of me, fuck off.”

“And send you to the floor?”

“Better than you _hugging me.”_

This is hardly a hug, with Felix glaring up at Sylvain despite the lower half of his face pressing into his chest. “Can you stand on your own?”

“Obviously not,” Felix says, and he must really be affected because he doesn’t tack an ‘idiot’ at the end.

“Okay, just—” And Sylvain readjusts them, gets Felix to sling an arm over his shoulder and hoist him up at his side, an arm around his waist. Felix can steady himself like this, as long as he leans against Sylvain. It will have to do, because Sylvain doesn’t think he’d survive trying to carry the man. “I won’t just leave you here for the others to collect. C’mon, I’ll get you to your flock.”

“Stupid pun,” Felix mutters, head lolling forward, and Sylvain huffs a laugh.

When he looks up again, he sees Acheron on the ground, muttering and snapping at the circle of agency heads around him. Dimitri, Dedue, Hresvelg, and Vestra all look down at him, then at each other. Probably debating just what to do. Sylvain spots Mercie hustling around to those who drank the champagne, checking for the most basic signs of life alongside Annette. Ingrid and Ashe are helping some Eagles lead the rest of the civilians out.

In the crowd, Sylvain spots a flash of red hair, a sprig of snapdragon barely obscured by its styling. Monica von Ochs meets his eyes for a brief moment before turning and hurrying her way out with the rest, but that hesitation gives Sylvain pause of his own. Neither of them belonged here tonight, and he finds himself latching onto that fact with fierce determination. After this is over, he’ll look into the Ochs name himself if he has to. There’s no way she would have some sort of frequency jammer on her if she wasn’t involved in _some_ odd business, and now that he thinks about it, she mentioned the champagne, too.

For now, he re-steadies his arm around Felix’s waist as he makes his way to the ring of leaders. Dimitri’s radiating rage, his fists clenched and arms crossed as he… stands by and lets Hresvelg approach Acheron, instead. Huh.

“Sylvain!”

He turns, and even though he heard her in the panic of it all, he’s still relieved to see Ingrid up and well. “Codenames, Serval.”

She waves a hand with a scowl. “We’re the only people conscious. What happened to your date?”

Felix makes an angry, disgruntled noise. “I’m _fine,”_ he incorrectly insists.

“He had some of the brew,” Sylvain explains, breezing past the indignation oozing into the air right beside him. “One of the Eagles.”

Ingrid takes a moment to actually study Felix. “Right. He looks like you described him.”

Sylvain thinks of the photo Dimitri showed him, of the two boys who hadn’t yet grown into their limbs. Has Ingrid seen it too, then, if she was able to recognize the description when they last spoke of him? Not important— not right now. “It isn’t affecting him like everyone else, but—”

“Practiced,” Felix slurs. “Tolerance training.”

“Makes sense, Fe,” Sylvain says a little too gently. Ingrid raises her eyebrows at him, and he shakes his head. “Vestra’s known for his poisons, right? His team would be trained by now. How is everything?”

“Ashe went with some Eagles to help round people up outside. It looks like the champagne hasn’t actually harmed anyone, aside from bruises from falling. Seems to be a quick sleep draught, so it’s just a matter of waiting for people to wake up.”

Sylvain nods. “And Acheron,” he prods, looking back to the man himself. He’s looking a lot less smug, eyes darting as he looks for something, or _someone,_ as he’s surrounded.

“Don’t look at me like that! I pay you people, you can’t just turn on me like this!”

Dimitri’s response is too low to recognize over the shrill cadence of Acheron’s voice, and the man whimpers.

“Taken care of,” Ingrid says.

“I can take that off your hands.”

At Sylvain’s side, Felix groans as a dark-haired woman sashays up to them. Sylvain recognizes her as Dorothea Arnault. As does Ingrid, apparently, because she stiffens beside Sylvain and Felix. _Interesting._

“Go _away,”_ Felix says.

“No chance. We need to have Linhardt look at you.” Dorothea gives Sylvain a cursory glance, and were he a bigger coward, he’d shrink under the evaluation she packs into that brief action. “I’m Dorothea Arnault, but you’d know that already, wouldn’t you? Your teammate here did.”

Ingrid flushes when Dorothea gives her a little finger-fluttering wave. _Even more interesting._

“He’s all yours,” Sylvain says, handing Felix over. The man squirms and mutters something, no doubt another insult.

Dorothea huffs in laughter at him as she bumps Felix’s hip with her own. “I’m glad I didn’t make you wear the heels now, honey,” she murmurs, not quite out of earshot.

“How come she gets to call you ‘honey?’”

Felix glares at Sylvain. His effectiveness, even when basically incapacitated, is impressive. “Le’sgo,” he mutters to Dorothea.

As they walk away, Sylvain turns to Ingrid with raised eyebrows.

“Not a word. She liked my outfit, that’s all.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m _serious._ I should be asking you why you were wearing that man like a cheap dress. I saw you two dancing.”

“None of your business.”

She regards him coolly for a moment before shaking her head with a sigh. “I thought we didn’t keep secrets,” she murmurs, gaze sliding back to Acheron’s personal ring of fire. Before Sylvain can speak past the sudden rush of— _guilt,_ is that guilt turning over in his stomach?— she continues, firmer, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

As she leaves, excusing herself to go assist Mercedes, Sylvain looks after her and wonders why this is the first time he’s felt guilty keeping a secret from her. Then he wonders if Fraldarius counts as a secret at all.

* * *

The champagne wasn’t laced with much, just a hyper nonlethal neuro-agent that would send a lesser person to the floor. And yet, on the way back, Felix finds himself drowsy and disoriented, eyes narrowed at Dorothea whenever she skirts around a topic he very much _doesn’t_ want to discuss. It isn’t until the next day that he gets a full debrief— from Edelgard herself, this time. Hubert’s too busy interrogating their new person of interest.

Surprisingly, Dimitri let Edelgard and Hubert take Acheron under their own supervision for further questions instead of… well, _anything_ else. When Felix first heard that, Gautier’s infuriating voice trickled in: _How can you know a man you haven’t seen in years?_

Then he had smashed the thought with a hammer and asked for the rest of the brief.

Acheron wasn’t working alone. Not by a long shot. He has no capability to concoct such a plan himself, and when confronted with his actions, it seemed not everything went as he planned, anyway. The doses were too low, the effects too minor. It seems whoever he was working with was either incompetent or playing him just like he thought he could play the Eagles and Lions.

No one was seriously injured. Though it was apparently a pain in the ass taking care of a bunch of inconvenienced rich people, _You, dear Felix,_ Dorothea said with a grin, _were the bigger issue._

He resents that.

It doesn’t take Hubert long to get something out of Acheron— especially with the help of Ferdinand, whom Hubert brought thanks to his negotiation skills. Felix doesn’t want to think about being at the receiving end of that pair’s ‘good cop, bad cop’ routine. Scarcely two hours after entering, they emerge; Hubert wears that same grim countenance he always does, and Ferdinand has a pleasant smile.

Unnerving, to say the least.

They call a meeting shortly after with every Eagle seated in a room with a large table that’s lit more dramatically than is necessary. Well, almost every Eagle. Bernadetta’s unsurprisingly absent. Especially after large events such as these, she requires more time to unwind than the rest. Felix may have to meet with her later, to make sure she got everything. But considering how everyone else is more than willing to come to her aid as well, perhaps he wouldn’t even be welcome.

“We have two persons of interest,” Hubert says, standing at the head of the table beside Edelgard. “One is a Miss Monica von Ochs, a woman of no particular importance aside from the fact that she disappeared two years ago. She was present at the party, interacting with the servants carrying the champagne. That would not have been as suspicious if she wasn’t also obviously disabling our communication devices whenever she got in proper range.” He nods to Edelgard. “Like when she approached Miss Hresvelg for an innocent chat.”

“Sounds too easy,” Linhardt says. “And that’s coming from me.”

“Why would she do that?” Caspar asks, brow furrowing. “It’s like she wanted us to catch on to her.”

“It’s a taunt,” Felix says, arms crossed. “She’s baiting us. Or she’s an idiot.”

“Our thoughts exactly,” Edelgard says. “Er— the bait, not the idiocy. Though it definitely wasn’t a very smart move on her part.”

“Hers was the only name I could use to get a reaction out of Acheron. Either his poker face is better than we assumed, or she’s the only person from the gala that is of any importance to us now.”

“The second person,” Petra says. “What of them?”

Hubert looks to Edelgard, who nods for him to continue.

“The only person I could get him to mention by name has ‘disappeared’ much like Ochs,” he says, producing a new file. “Though under much more suspicious circumstances.”

Felix watches as Hubert produces several familiar news clippings. They’re all copied, he realizes, but with different details highlighted. When he looks closer, the file’s label reads _Gautier, Miklan A._

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/astronomicallie).
> 
> biggest bestest thanks to [sara](https://twitter.com/277yen), the lovely artist behind this piece! they were super supportive and wonderful to work with. their art makes me want to scream out my window.
> 
> thanks to [isaac](https://twitter.com/reverethedeer) and [aquila](https://twitter.com/panntherism) for being wonderful beta- and hype-readers. thanks to everyone else who's had to hear me ramble about this. thanks to sylvix for not even kissing yet :pensive:
> 
> i have further plans for this verse and what comes after. will they happen? who knows! but i hope you enjoyed this one. comments/kudos/etc. are super appreciated, thank you for sticking around!


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